Another Evil Dead Review?
WHY? WHY? WHY??????
I've been on the internet for so long, I remember a time when the original Evil Dead was nearly impossible to find unless you had a really kick ass mom-and-pop video store with an aging VHS collection. That was about 1995 or so, I believe. Since then, the film has been frequent re-released. Since 1999 and now there have been seven home video releases of the movie. Honestly, if you have ever wanted to see this movie, and haven't, you're not trying hard enough. At one point in my life, I had three copies of the movie, and one of those purchases was by accident because all I wanted was a metal Evil Dead lunch box and didn't know it also came with the movie. What more does anyone need to say about this movie? I did a search on Google today and got this:
Den of Geek: The Russia of pop-culture websites.
I've sat through every bonus feature, read Bruce Campbell's tell-all If Chins Could Kill, and listened to many Q&A sessions with Betsy Baker, Ellen Sandweiss, and Theresa Tilly. Tom Sullivan has put up with my antics at Cinema Wasteland for too many years to count (such a patient man, that Tom Sullivan). I've written many reviews about this movie between my teens and early 20s. They were embarrassing, and I hope they stay wherever internet pages that aren't captured by Archive.org's Way Back Machine and die. Evil Dead is basically the Star Trek of horror movies. I figure there'll be a certain point where Bruce Campbell is going to pull a Shatner and deviate from any questions about this movie to talk about a horse ranch he has started or something.
What can I say about this movie that hasn't already been said about it? Well, one time I had a sexy dream involving the rape-tree. In it, I am a rugged lumberjack, striding through the forest. I have an ax slung over my shoulder, my muscles are rippling under my flannel shirt. My beard is epic. That's when I cross paths with the rape-tree. Our eyes lock. It looks at me, I look at it. I wet my lips as it seductively raises its roots out from under the carpet of dead leaves. The largest, a tendril-like thing begins gently stroking the cuff of my pant leg. "Do you want to get some drinks?" asks the tree. "Absolutely," I reply "After a long day of chording wood and being manly, I am mighty parched." However, it was at that time that I noticed that the tree had a strange tattoo on its trunk
This does not bode well, I thought to myself. Still, it was a long day, and a free drink is a free drink, so I followed along. He brought me to this bar called the Dirty Dogwood where we had a couple of drinks. We get to talking and he says to me "How are you doing with the Cheryls?"
"I don't know anybody named Cheryl" I shout back over the booming music.
The book in question.
"Oh, sorry, Cheryls are what I call those of the female persuasion if you know what I mean."
"Sorry, I don't", I reply.
"You really should read my book. It'll teach you everything you need to know about the Cheryls"
"I guess so..." I reply cautiously.
That's when he slides a copy of his book right up to me.
It was called "Branch" written by someone named Roosh Tree.
"I never met a tree with a name before," I reply.
"Oh, that's not my real name. It's a pseudonym because of the haters."
"Haters?", I was perplexed.
"People don't like how I give trees advice on how to branch Cheryls."
A few drinks later and I find myself at a secret meeting of other aspiring trees wanting to learn the art of branch. It was in the gardening department of the local Home Depot, after hours. The lights were down low and I found myself sitting among a Birch, an Ashwood, and a Pine tree. Curiously, there was also a Ficus in attendance. I asked why it was there, and it told me that even a lowly houseplant like it deserves to learn how to branch.
That's when I woke up in a cold sweat.
Anyway, I don't trust trees anymore.